


Olly Olly Oxen

by aerye



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Coming Out, Early Work, Future Fic, M/M, Safer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/pseuds/aerye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al does the talk shows while Sam lunches with the ladies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olly Olly Oxen

_"...a word from our local affiliates and we'll be  
back with your phone calls for Admiral Al Calavicci..."_

“He should have worn the red suit.” Irene from Data Analysis was frowning and shaking her head vigorously, sending the curls piled high on her head swaying dangerously from side to side. With her bright red hair and navy striped blouse, Sam thought she looked a little like a buoy bobbing on the water, or maybe a drunken French sailor. Which made him think of Al – who was neither French nor a very good sailor – but it made him smile. “He should have worn the red,” Irene repeated, looking away from the PQL cafeteria television towards her friend Marci, who worked in Research and sat beside Irene crunching on celery sticks in a determined effort to avoid the plate of cookies in the center of the table. “I mean, he just always looks so great in the red.” 

Sam watched Marci nod her agreement, which wasn't much cause for surprise since Marci seemed to agree with everything Irene said, and turned his head along with everyone else when Angela, sitting two tables away and reapplying a violent shade of plum lipstick started shaking her head and making loud “uh-uh” noises. 

“No way, girlfriend.” Angela, previously of Administrative Services, lately assigned to Human Resources, eyed the rest of her makeup critically before snapping the travel mirror shut with a flick of her wrist and returning it to her pocket. “They wouldn't take him seriously in the red,” she continued, ignoring Irene's glare and leaning back in her chair, looking a little smug as she tucked the edge of a scarf more securely behind one ear. “The uniform's much better. Much more serious. And it makes him look taller.” 

“Oh, absolutely.” Sam jumped a little as Winona from Accounting appeared at the table next to his. Verbena Beeks settled in next to her and nodded a greeting to Sam, wrinkling her nose as she tore the shrink-wrap away from her salad, eyeing it dubiously. “He looks much more important in the dress blues,” Winona continued. “More official, y'know? More...I don't know...sincere?” 

Verbena snorted and rolled her eyes, unwrapping her plastic fork with a flourish. “Would you listen to yourself, girl? You want to climb that man up one side and down the other. _With your tongue._ Don't waste my time with ‘ _sincere_ ’.” She flashed Sam a grin and a wink, and he flushed, recalling his own forays into erotic spelunking before he was distracted again by Marci, who sighed as she finally surrendered to temptation and reached for a tollhouse. 

“Y’know,” she rested her chin on her other hand, chewing thoughtfully, “it oughta be illegal for a guy his age to still be so…” she made a vague, swiftly aborted gesture with her hand “…so…y'know?” 

Irene giggled. “Yeah, I know what you mean, so…oh, I don’t know how to put it. I mean, there’s the way he,” she blushed, “…well the way he does that thing…y’know after he does that other thing…” 

“You mean when he…” 

“Of course that’s what she means…” 

“Oh, and then when he…I mean, you know how he…” 

“Oooh, yeah…and so _slowly_ …” 

The women surrounding him exchanged grins and then laughed out loud, their faces flushed. Sam realized his own face felt a little hot and he wondered if the things they thought were so sexy about Al were even remotely similar to the things that drove him crazy when Winona distracted him again with yet another sigh. “Lord, what I wouldn’t give for fifteen minutes in the file room with him.” 

Angela smirked. “I think we all know what you’d give, sweetie.” 

“You mean we all know what _you_ gave…” Irene jumped in. 

“Like you’d be any different, girl? Get in line. And it starts right behind me.” 

“Doesn’t it always?” 

“Shush, shush! It’s on again.” 

_“Welcome back - this is Barry Queen Live. Admiral Al Calavicci is with us tonight and in just a few minutes we'll be taking your calls…”_

Angela was right, Sam decided. The dress blues did look good. _Al_ looked good, better than ever. 

And Sam was still getting used to the effect that had on him. It was ridiculous but the poets were right – the mouth did go dry, the heart did beat faster. 

But then everything was different now, now that he was home. Nothing was routine, nothing would be taken for granted ever again. Mundane as it was, sitting in the PQL cafeteria eating a slightly stale pastrami sandwich and drinking more than slightly bitter ice tea was an occasion to be savored, simply because it was mundane, because it was trite. Because it was real and he was real, and wearing his own face and his own clothes, and his own name, and sleeping in his own bed… 

Well, sometimes. 

_“...and of course this was a real group effort – Sam would be the first to tell you that…”_

His love for Al had snuck up on him, taking him by surprise one day as they both sat in one of the endless briefings following his return. Just one of the long days in the series of long days, one of the hours upon hours of the same questions, over and over again. Nothing different, everything the same, except that one moment he was tired and bored, more than a little frustrated with the pointless round robin of questions, and the next he was looking at Al, who was rising to his feet, face dark and angry. Al, who had finally had enough, whose frustration had finally reached the boiling point and was even now spilling over in a spectacular diatribe on the less admirable qualities of their interviewers, on the shortsighted narrow mindedness of men like them. The explosion was short and sweet and there were several references, perhaps undeserved, to Torquemada and the Inquisition, and Darwin and monkey trials, and Copernicus and Galileo and Bill Gates. And Al’s eyes burned with the fever of a Chautauqua tent preacher, the gravelly voice urgent and sweet as bossa nova, and as Sam watched him carve up their inquisitors, flaying them with a disdain as sharp as knives, Sam suddenly realized he was in love. 

And when Al's ringing words finally faded and they looked at each other across the conference table, Sam realized he wasn't alone. 

_“...so she looks at me, looks at him, right? Then she picks herself up, dusts off her butt with one hand, grabs what's left of her bra with the other, and says, “Mr. Ambassador. Didn't we meet in Afghanistan?”_

Which made the events of the last few weeks all the more frustrating. Four months wasn’t nearly enough to get beyond that honeymoon stage, that lovely euphoric state of mind where a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, etc. etc. was the only recipe necessary for contentment. 

Al had been gone barely a week now and Sam was missing him something crazy. It was one thing to have to hide how he felt when Al was close by and loving him. It was another when Al was being rationed out to him in fifteen-second sound bites and a twenty-minute spot on Meet the Press. This was Al's fourth interview in as many days, just the beginning of the Navy's hastily thrown together media blitz. All hell had broke loose just a couple of weeks before, the result of a leak about PQL, its mission, and its unscheduled frolic through time. Washington was responding in its usual fashion: Congressmen thumped their chests, demanding an investigation. The Attorney General hemmed and hawed and mumbled about jurisdiction. It was an election year, and so the politicos scrambled to make it a campaign issue, the erstwhile incumbent seeking to simultaneously take credit for a major scientific breakthrough while blaming previous administrations for any breaches in policy or security. The pollsters polled. 

The public descended on the project, forming roadside camps where people pitched tents as well as their agendas. Marginal religious sects, disappointed that the millennium hadn’t brought the prophesied rapture and end of the world, now gathered to chant and pray and speak in tongues about the devils unleashed in the New Mexico desert. They were joined by the groupies, mostly women, mostly young and barely clad, all claiming to be from the past or the future, all claiming to be wives or children or mothers of the children of the great Doctor Beckett. And after them came the enthusiasts, tired of the stale rhetoric on cloning and eager to debate the ethics of time travel, the sci-fi fans, who "grokked" Ziggy, the techno-nerds, the new-agers, the creationists. 

Sam sighed. Al was furious, calling it a fucking carnival on crack. The Navy just wanted damage control. They wanted the dangers minimized, the spin maximized. They wanted attention diverted from the billions of dollars spent, the half-answered riddles, the sticky ethical questions. Give the public a hero, was their brilliant response. 

What the Navy didn’t know, and probably wouldn’t care about if they did, was that in Al’s arms Sam had found more than the love of his life, of all his lives. Opening his heart to Al was like finding the Holy Grail, like taking a deep breath after being under water for too long. Suddenly, there was more to Sam Beckett than the need to dissect, the need to reduce a whole to its parts, and those parts to an equation. The obsession to _know_ that had once seduced him into gambling his life in a cosmic crap game he’d only just survived was finally tamed. Al accepted all the things that made him who he was, nourished the good things, understood the not-so-good, and the dormant seeds in Sam’s heart had burst into life, an eager germination of roots and capillaries that all grew in one direction – towards Al. This forced separation while those roots were still so tender tore at his heart, left him aching and empty. God, he wanted Al back. 

*** 

The lights on the set were hot and the collar of his uniform was digging into his neck, rubbing a raw spot just below his ear. Al shrugged his shoulders and tugged at the stiff material, trying to adjust the fit of the jacket across his shoulders. 

This latest interview was going pretty good. The leak, while forcing them to disclose some things more quickly than they would have liked, hadn’t touched on any of the really sticky issues – Sam actually leaping _into_ people, the whole notion of righting what once went wrong. All he really needed to do was tell a few stories, pitch a few tightly edited explanations, play with a little string… 

Al sighed and tried to adjust his collar again. What he really minded was being away from home, being away from Sam. The complex was surrounded with a bunch of looney tunes characters whose toehold on reality made him more than a little nervous. From the point of view of a man whose past was filled with dead heroes, Al didn’t like the success rate for fanatics with a gun. 

He looked over at the monitors, feeling the odd sense of disorientation in watching himself watch himself watch himself. They were on a short break. Time for the headlines, the sixty-second entertainment spot, the sports recap. “Admiral.” Queen, who had been called away from the anchor desk by a group of sober, suited men, was on his way back. 

“Hot as a son of a bitch, isn't it?” Queen handed him a glass of fresh water. There was a false note of camaraderie in his voice that triggered Al’s alert buttons. 

“Yeah...” 

_“Three minutes, Barry.”_

Queen nodded to the crewman. “Listen, Admiral, before we go back on the air…I just want you to know that I’ve got some questions coming up you may not like.” 

Al felt his unease grow. “Look, Queen, I told you, what was leaked is public. You got questions about any of that, fine – but anything classified…” 

“This isn’t classified, Admiral. This is private.” 

“Private.” Al studied Queen with narrowed eyes, not liking the word or the way it was said. “How private?” 

“Private as it gets.” Queen passed him a file. “You and Sam Beckett.” 

_Ah, Christ…Sam, Sam, Sam…_

Al opened the folder. A grainy, badly focused photograph showed him and Sam sitting in a booth at a club, Sam smiling, his own hand curled around the nape of Sam’s neck. Everything inside him seized up, battle stations. For a moment it was like being back in the cockpit of his F14, the gee forces driving the air from his lungs like the tight grip of a fist, his heart and his lungs frozen in the task of circulating blood and air through his body. “This doesn’t prove anything,” he heard himself deny automatically, surprised at the evenness of his voice. 

“It’s suggestive. And there have been rumors.” 

_Rumors?_ “Fuck rumors. That the best you can do?” _Pull it back, pull it back…_ He tossed the photograph back onto the desk. 

Queen reddened, and from the corner of his eye Al could see some nervous shifting among the suits. “Admiral, someone delivered this to our studio an hour before air time. Legal played with it before it got to me, which was precisely two minutes ago.” Queen might be embarrassed but he wasn’t backing down. “I seriously doubt that we’re the only news organization that got a copy of this. Someone’s gonna go for the story. My producer wants it to be us. And let me remind you, I didn’t have to give you any notice. I could have just…” 

_“Two minutes.”_

“…surprised…” 

“…ambushed, you mean….” 

“… _surprised_ you with this while we were on the air.” 

“What a pal.” Rage seared his tongue, burning it with the words stalled in his mouth. He sat back and ran a hand through his hair, trying to think beyond the urgent pounding of his heart. 

“So how are we gonna play this, Admiral? Denials? Are you saying that’s not you and Doctor Sam Beckett in the picture?” 

_Drowsy eyes staring up at him from above a mulish frown…”I’m not saying we come out, Al. I’m just saying if the question comes up, I don’t wanna lie…”_

“Admiral? Damn it, Calavicci – we got about sixty seconds here…” 

_Ah, fuck…Sam…_

“Calavicci…!” Christ, a deep breath would surely shatter his ribs… 

“It’s me. It’s…me and Sam.” 

Queen glanced at the clock. “And it means…?” 

“It means what the fuck it looks like it means,” Al snarled, wanting to lash out, wanting to feel solid ground beneath his feet again. He felt the sweat gathering on his forehead and above his lip. 

“Where was it taken?” Queen pressed, and Al envied him, envied his calm that could only come from feeling secure in your place in the universe. 

“ _Now_ you want facts?” He felt the strangest urge to laugh and the set felt so cold, after being so hot. Sam’d probably tell him it was shock. 

_Sam, Sam…_

Worse things had happened to him. Worse things could happen to him than admitting the way he felt about Sam, the fucking miracle of Sam’s love for him. 

“…I’d like confirmation from you.” 

He looked up at Queen again. Apparently the rest of the world was still turning. “Key West,” he said slowly. “We were in Key West.” He took a careful breath, then another, fuller, deeper. Something hurtful in his chest was slowly unclenching, easing the grip on his heart. “It was a few weeks after Sam got back. We just needed to get away. Sam was tired, I was tired. Ah, hell…it was just a quick weekend outta town, just to get away. Who figured some queer geek would recognize either one of us and take a picture?” He snorted. “Hell, who knew there were queer geeks?” 

“Our tech guys think it’s cropped. It was probably a picture of someone or something else, and you and Doctor Beckett just happened to be in the background. What with all the publicity recently…” Queen shrugged. “I’m sorry, Admiral. Helluva way for this to come out.” 

_Yeah, right, you sonofabitch_ , and another deep breath and he was getting his wind back now, getting it together. He could taste his anger, taste it hot and fierce and protective, and _Christ, you bastards just want a show_ , it was just a fucking show to them, and _Sam, I’m sorry, Sam…_ by god, it they wanted a show, he could give them a show, a helluva show, the show to end all shows, and it they thought they knew what queer meant before… 

_“And we’re back, five, four, three…”_

* * * 

The helicopter circled slowly, the concentrated rays of the sinking sun reflecting off the cockpit and coming dangerously close to blinding the passengers inside. Al turned his head and adjusted his sunglasses, looking down at the crowd gathered around the squat government issue buildings that made up the ground level of the PQL complex. The chain link fence corralled them as effectively as possible, a motley collection of geeks and freaks. 

The crowd had grown appreciatively while he was gone and a new crop of signs now bloomed among the milling protesters, sporting bright pink triangles and rainbow flags. As the helicopter dropped down and touched its landing gear to the pad Al could hear the crowd, the shouts and the catcalls, the chanting and the singing. The volume rose as people surged against the fence. 

“Quite a reception, sir,” the pilot grinned. 

Al nodded absently, eyes narrowing as he got a closer look at some of the signs. “Thanks for the lift, Harry.” He tossed his bag onto the tarmac. “Give my regards to White Sands.” 

“Will do, Admiral.” The pilot waited for Al to slam the door shut again and back away, then lifted off again with a backhand salute. 

“Sir?” 

Al turned. 

“Sir, the Captain requests you come inside immediately, sir.” A corporal jogged across the tarmac and hefted his bag, urging him into the complex. “We’re on level eight security, sir.” 

“What happened?” he asked sharply, taking in the increased security deployed along the fence and the newly constructed sandbag bunkers. 

“Nothing, sir. That is, since the crowd got so much larger, sir, Captain Onley thought additional security was in order.” 

“Corporal….” It was his Admiral voice. 

“We had one or two minor skirmishes, Admiral.” Onley was there to meet him at the door. “Just between the unfriendlies, sir. Nothing that was directed right at us.” 

Al surrendered his briefcase and hat to the corporal, then joined Onley at the security control desk. 

“I’ve deployed two extra units along the fence,” Onley explained, pointing at the monitors, “and added extra security to all levels. Getting our personnel in and out was becoming high risk, so I authorized temporary quarters for all essential personnel and had the non-essentials evacuated this afternoon. Doctor Beckett was assigned his own security team…” 

“Who?” 

“Rutgers, Harris and Abernathy.” 

Al shook his head. “Rutgers is too green. Replace him. And put Andrews on it, too.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Where is Sam?” 

“Doctor Beckett’s in Control. Would you like me to get him on the phone, sir?” 

“No, that’s okay – I’ll head down there in a minute. Anything else?” 

“Well, we’ve had some intelligence that the feds have operatives in the crowd but I can’t get anyone at the field office to confirm.” 

Al snorted. “What else is new? Look, why can’t we just shut ‘em down?” 

“No federal infringement, sir.” Onley shrugged. “We got no jurisdiction. Technically, everything outside the gate is state property.” 

“Then find me some goddamn jurisdiction. Get the goddamn governor on the phone and tell him we want some help here.” Al pinched the growing ache between his eyes and dialed it down. “Ed, can you really keep these lunatics outside?” 

“Yes, sir, I believe we can. Ninety percent of them are pretty harmless, if you ask me.” 

“And the other ten?” 

“We got 'em in our sights. They cross the line, we'll take 'em down.” 

Al studied the silent monitors. The crowd had backed off a little since the departure of the helicopter, with only a few die-hards still right up against the fence, shouting into the faces of the grim soldiers staring at them through the chain link. 

“Have they been like this all day?” he asked tiredly, loosening his tie. Someone handed him a cup of coffee and he took a swallow gratefully. 

“Pretty much,” Onley said. “Those holy rollers hate the science freaks, and once the faggots showed up…I mean…” Onley looked like he wanted to swallow his tongue. Al would’ve been happy to feed it to him. 

“Yeah, Ed? After all the faggots showed up…?” 

“Excuse me, sir. No disrespect intended, Admiral.” Onley continued doggedly. “After the, uh, uh, homosexual activists arrived, sir, things just escalated. It’s been pretty much like this since then.” 

“Well, except right after the pizzas came, Captain.” The corporal was back, offering to refill his cup. “Everybody was pretty friendly for awhile after that, sir.” 

God, he needed to get to Sam. To see him, and know he was okay, and find out how they were gonna… 

_Pizza?_

“After the _what_ got delivered?” 

“Uh, the pizzas, sir. Doctor Beckett ordered two thousand pizzas delivered from the Pizza Shack. He said everyone should be feeling as good as he was.” Onley cleared his throat. “The, uh, the visitors seemed to enjoy them, sir.” 

Al shook his head sadly, fighting the grin that wanted to take over his face. 

“Not a decent Italian among ‘em.” 

* * * 

It took him five levels, two security checkpoints, and a long, slow elevator ride with the three stooges from Engineering before Al could put his finger on the weird feeling playing knock-knock with his subconscious. 

People were having trouble looking him in the eye. 

Not everyone, of course, and not everyone for the most obvious reason. The corporal in charge of Level Four access looked him up and down twice, hard, without blinking, just like he always did, staring grimly straight into Al’s eyes and leaving Al with the usual impression that, Admiral or not, he was _this close_ to a strip search and polygraph, just on principle. 

But it was obvious that some people were avoiding him. Hurrying past with abrupt greetings, more than usually preoccupied with file folders and printouts. More men than women, he thought, although some of the women were avoiding him, too. Most of the military personnel, unable to ignore him, settled for focusing on a point somewhere next to his left ear, all of them wearing the same bland, impassive faces, their voices carefully neutral. His personal space seemed to have grown by two feet in every direction. He hadn’t thought about it much on the trip back, going straight from the studio to the airport and grabbing the next plane out to Albuquerque. Sure, his face had been splashed over the monitors a few times by Airport CNN but airline travelers were generally too busy to pay much attention, looking up from their laptops and cell phones only when it came time for the weather report and the list of airport delays. There’d been the occasional odd glance, the curious squint as someone tried to figure out what was so familiar about him, but soon enough they were all settled in at 32,000 feet, munching their peanuts and plugging back in as soon as the flight attendant said it was okay. 

And to be honest, he’d been kinda preoccupied with his own thoughts, too busy to worry about it. Wondering just what kind of fallout he was coming back to, whether or not he should be factoring a court martial into his immediate future plans. Whether Sam was mad, or glad, or sad. 

He’d tried to call Sam twice, once at the studio and again before he climbed onto the plane. The first time he got a message saying the cell phone he was trying to reach was out of service – Sam, as usual, musta forgot to turn the damn thing on. When he tried again at the airport, the phone rang obediently but Gooshie answered it, and by the time he’d found Sam, Al was boarding. 

He found a message on his own cell phone when he arrived in Albuquerque – short, marginally reassuring, the call obviously made in earshot of others – but by then he was running for the shuttle and only an hour or so away, so it would all have to wait until he got home. 

And now he was home, and he really needed to see Sam, to find him and apologize. Talk to him and hold him. It was Harris on the door to Control. He saluted Al and stepped back as Al activated the door release with his palm print. 

“Sam?” Al hesitated in the doorway of the apparently empty room. “Sam, you in here?” 

“Al!” Sam’s voice echoed from inside the Accelerator. “Wait a second, I’m halfway inside this thing! Just a minute...” Al listened to the grating sound of the metal panels being shifted, the distinct clatter of tools falling, the softly muttered curse. 

“Sam?” 

“Just a minute, just a minute.” More clatter, more mumbling, and then Sam appeared at the top of the ramp, his face flushed and shiny with sweat. As always, the sight of him standing so close to the Accelerator tugged at Al’s heart, and as always he beat down the urge drag Sam as far away from the damn thing as he could. 

“Hey, Sam.” 

“Al.” 

He still hesitated, feeling awkward. Like what had happened had somehow changed them both, and he was waiting to see who they would be, now that their silences had all been broken. Then Sam was down the ramp and across the room in two steps, arms around him, holding tight, and for a moment there was just that, just them, just the heart beating against his and a quiet sense of homecoming. Sam’s shirt was damp with sweat, the heat rising moist from his skin. Sam smelled like fading cologne and pastrami, and it was everything Al had been craving from the moment he’d set eyes on that blurry photograph, from the moment his heart had stopped, one life ending and another beginning. 

“Love ya, kid,” he whispered gently. 

“Love you, too, Al.” Sam’s arms tightened around him. “God, I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, kid.” He sighed. “Christ, I’m sorry, Sam. What a friggin’ mess.” He searched for words to convey what he felt, his regret that what was so precious between them had been exposed so cavalierly, his shame at his own fears, his need to somehow make it right. 

“Al, it wasn’t your fault,” Sam said, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, well, I coulda handled it better.” 

“Like how? We shouldn’t have to lie, Al.” 

“And I shouldn’t have to pay alimony to my second wife, who by the way makes more money than both of us do, but that’s the way things go sometimes, Sam.” 

“It sucks.” 

He reached up and ran a thumb over Sam’s mouth, smiling sadly. “Yeah, it sucks. Sam…” 

Suddenly strong arms were picking him up, carrying him the two steps backwards to press him up against the wall. Sam held him there, giving him a smile simmering with equal parts heat and mischief, and Al had to bite down hard on his lip to hide a smile, collaring the sudden instinct to retaliate by nailing Sam against the nearest flat surface. 

“Sam, we need to talk,” he said instead, wondering why that Admiral’s voice never worked with Sam. 

“So talk,” Sam shrugged, leaning into him, inching a hard thigh between his legs. 

“Sammm…” He bit back another laugh and a groan as the thigh began rocking slowly against him. “Sam, are you really okay with this?” he asked, his own hands somehow finding their way around the curve of Sam’s ass. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, I’m okay,” and Sam didn’t seem to be paying much attention at all to what Al was saying, pressing warm kisses into the soft folds of skin on the side of his throat, sparking a heat that blazed down the back of his thighs. 

He tried again anyway. “Y'know, I didn’t know what Queen had planned until we were into the broadcast or I would’ve called…” 

“It’s okay, Al. Really.” Sam's breathless reassurances were tickling his ear and he squirmed, trying to grab the fingers that were like an advance party, infiltrating his uniform jacket, scouting south on an erotic scavenger hunt. 

“You, uh…Sam!…you always said you wouldn’t want to lie about it, so I guess I thought…” 

“You thought right, Al. You thought exactly right,” Sam interrupted impatiently, finally getting all of the buttons on Al’s jacket undone and sliding his hands up under the back of his shirt. “I want you,” he breathed directly into Al’s ear. 

And son of a bitch if Sam couldn’t do this to him every time, every fucking time, that breathless eagerness deepening to a “fuck me” serrated sultriness. The heated edge of that bad-boy voice danced along Al’s spine, slicing through the mantle of overheated flesh to burn like a thin blue flame along his inner landscape of muscle and bone. 

_Oh, fuck…_

He closed his eyes. Screw the apology. 

“Where the hell are we sleeping tonight?” 

* * * 

They were both breathing a little hard by the time they reached Sam’s room and the solid _thwack_ of the deadbolt sliding into place as Sam threw the lock on the door behind them sliced clean through the lingering knots of tension that had settled at the base of Al’s spine and began unraveling the braided muscles in his neck and back. Al felt his desire slip the leash, need spreading like a heated wave that hugged the surface of his skin. His moan was more of growl as Sam pressed close against the length of his spine, and perhaps it was fire in his veins because Sam cried out, soft and low against his ear, as he turned into the invitation, his own arms completing the embrace. 

And it all felt different, so new, even though they’d done it before, done this before. It shouldn’t make any difference, people knowing, but it did, and where before it had always felt a little furtive – not sordid, Christ, nothing with Sam could ever be sordid but secret, yes, covert – now it felt…well, Al didn’t know exactly how it felt but it felt different. 

And the same, hell, it felt the same too, so familiar, so perfect, so fucking right. 

Sam kissed him, mouth wide and wet and hungry, devouring, and Al met that hunger, met it with his own, mouth opening wide to accept teeth and tongue and taste. His hands gripped hard, one fastening on a shoulder, the other molding itself to Sam’s jaw, feeling the movement beneath his fingers as the kiss went on and on and on, and it was like every good thing that had ever happened to him, like that first shot of whiskey biting down hard on his tongue, or the cold crisp smell of those dawn exercises, the sky still pink and his hands itching to take the controls. 

“Al…” Harsh, wet breath and his own name filled his mouth, and Al groaned again, hands moving with purpose now, pulling and tugging, and trying to move them both back towards the bed, meeting with unexpected resistance, Sam’s hands pushing and pulling in other directions. 

“Sam…” _goddamnit!_

“Al…” 

“…I just wanna get us…” _now…_

“…can’t we lay down…” 

“…on the bed!” 

“…on the couch?” 

They looked at each other, and they both grinned, and then they both laughed, and Al felt his insides twist in that weird, mushy way they did when Sam smiled at him like that. And Sam kissed him again, softer this time, and slower, and softer and slower didn’t seem to make much difference to his cock, standing up straight inside his trousers. And Al knew this was something he wanted to do for the rest of his life. 

Sam was taking his time now, lingering over the places Al liked best, the soft spot behind his ear, the edge of his jaw. Eager hands pulled at his clothing as Sam began stripping away his jacket, fumbling with his buttons. Al cooperated as best he could, shrugging off his shirt and kicking away his trousers when they pooled around his feet. He threaded his fingers through Sam’s hair, pulling Sam’s mouth back to his, tasting, slowing him down, slowing them both down. 

“Mmm…love you, love you.” Sam was biting his lip and his hand had found it’s way into Al’s shorts, stroking him. He pushed into that tight grip, his head falling forward onto Sam’s shoulder. 

“Christ, I love you, too, kid, more than ever, more than anything.” He groaned as Sam’s hand grew more insistent, biting back a laugh. As if he could get any harder. “God...” He backed Sam towards the bed again, breath hissing through clenched teeth as Sam sank down onto the mattress, mouth smearing eager, wet kisses along Al’s ribs. With a sigh Al followed him down, shaking fingers working at the buttons on Sam's jeans, tracing the hard edge of Sam’s erection as it leapt under his hand. The last button finally freed, Al pushed the worn denim aside, sliding to his knees as he pulled the jeans down and off. Sam’s cock bobbed gently in front of his face, rosy red and wet, twitching as he sent a thin cool stream of air across the plumy bulb. He closed his eyes, savoring the pulse in his groin, the steady thrum of arousal that confounded his fingers as he slid his hand between Sam’s legs, feeling the weight of his balls against his wrist. Hunger felt like a living thing in his belly, an aching emptiness that needed the touch and taste of Sam to appease it. 

“Al,” Sam moaned, his fingers making fists in Al’s hair. “Al, please…” 

But he refused to be rushed, refused to let either of them hurry, letting his hands wander, as if he’d never touched or held or stroked or tasted before. Sam’s groans shortened to a gasping, ragged breathing, and then deepened to sobs, and finally Al let his thumbs settled in the hollows of Sam’s hips, tugging him forward. He sucked the tip of Sam’s cock into his mouth, his tongue pressing flat over the swelling crown before he took as much of it as he could in his mouth. He curled his fingers around the firm shaft, stroking, and he could hear Sam’s breath catch again, frozen in his throat, could feel the climbing heat as fresh sweat slicked the twitching muscles in Sam’s thighs. 

“Al...” 

He sucked harder, opening his mouth wider, tasting Sam, charting the thick vein pulsing against his tongue. He relaxed his jaw and tried to breathe through his nose, feeling Sam get harder and harder, filling his mouth… 

“Al,” and there were hands tugging at him, at his hair, at his ears, “Al, please… be careful…” And careful was the last thing he wanted to be but he let the hands pull him away anyway, and he turned his face into a sweating palm, filling it with a kiss. “Okay,” he whispered shakily, “okay, okay, okay,” and he was hungry for it, so hungry for it but…"where are they?" 

Sam pulled him up to kiss him hard on the mouth, unsteady hands on his face, before whispering against his forehead. “In the nightstand.” 

He nodded, dragging Sam’s mouth back down to his, stealing another kiss, hard and forceful, and they almost got lost there again, in kisses so deep and so hard, but finally Sam pulled away and Al leaned over, fumbling in the drawer in the small table next to the bed. The box was right there, in front, brand spanking new and the large economy size. Al shot a sudden grin Sam’s way as he picked it up, the grin fading as he struggled with the cellophane wrapper, thick fingers clumsy with need. He bit into it, tugging with his teeth and still it refused to tear, the sweat on his hands making his fingers slid over the factory seals. 

“Do you want me to...” 

And like a piñata the box flew apart in his hands, the contents sailing in all directions. He heard Sam give a short, startled laugh as several of the condoms struck him in the head and shoulders, and Al salvaged what he could from the demolished remains, tossing the empty box back on the table as he turned back to the bed. He tore open a packet and with a final wet, lingering suck to Sam’s cock slid the latex on, feeling the hot eyes watching him avidly as he followed again with his mouth. 

He used lips then, and tongue, and finally throat, feeling the muscles in his jaw protest as he took Sam deeper and deeper, but god, he was hungry for it, so hungry for it, until Sam cried out, and he felt the desperation in the strong hands that gripped his shoulders, in the fingers that traced the lines of his face, trailing over his lips as he devoured him. Only passion now filled the tight, hot spaces between them, and he felt himself drowning in the familiar, unfamiliar desire to lose himself, to bury himself in Sam until he no longer existed, until he no longer lived and breathed apart from him, and with a deep groan he wrenched himself off the thick cock filling his mouth, burying his face against Sam’s thigh. 

Sam moaned a protest at the absence of the hot, wet mouth and his hand gripped Al's when he tried to pull off the condom, his face filling with alarm. 

“Al...?” 

“I want to see you come.” Al bit the words out, his voice ragged and deep. “If I can't taste it, I want to see it, feel it, smell it...” Their eyes met, naked and needy, burning. Sam shivered under his hands and finally nodded, his head falling back as Al wrapped strong fingers around his cock and stroked him, milking him, hard, hard — until Sam's head fell back and he cried out, thick strings of cum erupting and spilling over Al's hand. 

“Yes! Yesyesyes…oh…oh god…fuck yes…” And as if the strings had all been cut, Sam collapsed onto his shoulder, arms crushing Al close. “…oh, god…Al...” 

Al didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, still hungry, still starving, lifting Sam's t-shirt to tease his nipples with callused fingers, rubbing the tender nubs into small hard pebbles. His hands slid down the lean back to Sam's ass, fingers digging into the fleshy curves, one thumb caressing the grasping, flexing hole. “Sam…let me. Please….” and with a groan, Sam slid off the bed into his arms, twisting to lean over the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress as he buried his flushed face in the bedding. He spread his thighs, offering, opening himself to Al. 

“Yes, please Al...” 

“Yes, baby...that's fine, you’re fine, you’re beautiful,” and Al's hands trembled as he tore open another condom and prepared himself quickly with lube that felt cool and slick in his hands, the chill leeched away by the heat gripping his fingers. Sam groaned and rolled his hips, leaning into each caress, his back a tight curve that arched and moved with each stroke of Al's fingers inside him. With hands that hadn’t been steady for some time, Al dragged the head of his cock along the firm cheeks, pressing between them, groaning as Sam opened his thighs even wider and pushed back, engineering his own impalement. The tight furnace of flesh enveloped his cock, and he set a rhythm, slow and deep and strong and this was beyond just sex, beyond just fucking. This was the way he wanted to make love for the rest of his life, the way he wanted things to be, him and Sam, the way it had always been, but more now, so much more, more than he’d ever even imagined. 

And Sam was crazy now, moaning, twisting and crying out with each thrust of Al's cock into him. The muscles in his back moved smoothly beneath the damp, flushed skin, and Al leaned over to press his face into the velvet skin between the sharp shoulder blades, feeling the wet heat against his face. 

“You're beautiful, kid,” he whispered, feeling strangely in control again, controlling the hunger, making it last. He licked away the sweat coating his lips. 

“Love me, Al.” Sam drew a long, shuddering breath. “Oh, Jesus, Al...fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me...” 

Al’s breath burned in his throat, and he thrust harder, deeper. They moved together, bodies fitting closer, faster, faster, and he was riding Sam now, thrusting hard and deep, and the heat between them was like brushfire, burning up his spine into his brain and then he was there, explosion, implosion, coming, coming, _coming..._

And then peace. 

The gentle hum of the air conditioner kicking in finally stirred them. They lay slumped against the bed, still joined, Al snug up against Sam's back. “You okay, Sam?” he whispered, his lips tugging gently on the damp hair curling at the nape of Sam's neck. 

Sam sighed, sounding just a little smug, and then laughed and groaned at the same time, causing both their bodies to shake. “You're kidding, right?” He twisted his head over his shoulder, lips searching for Al's. “I feel...incredible,” he answered, his mouth brushing softly against Al’s as he spoke. 

Al felt what had to be an obscenely wicked grin split his face, his own breathing still a little rough. “That comeback's way too easy,” he complained, then sighed and took a deep breath as he shifted. “But my knees are killing me. I gotta get up.” 

Sam took a long, slow breath and shivered as Al pulled out of him, remaining on the floor when Al slid onto the bed. He smiled up at Al as he placed a tender hand on Al's thigh and told him to stay put, rising and going into the bathroom. He came back with a damp washcloth and a hand towel, and gently cleaned away the sticky residue of their lovemaking. 

Five minutes later they lay curled around each other under the blankets, Al's fingers drifting slowly up and down Sam's spine. 

“Hmmm.” Sam sighed and pressed closer. “You keep that up, you're gonna get me going all over again.” 

Al chuckled and let his hand fall still, wrapping one arm around Sam. “Then I'll stop. Tomorrow's gonna be one bitch of a day. You know we’re gonna have to make some kind of statement. Maybe hold a press conference.” He slid his hand into Sam’s. “You’ll have to be there.” 

“I don't care.” Sam's fingers tightened over Al's hand. “I don't care how bad it is. Whatever the price, this is worth it.” 

“You get no argument from me, kid.” He moved closer still, burying his nose against the still wet hair. The night settled around them, the stillness and the dark pressing close. Al let himself drift, tantalizingly close to oblivion. 

“...Al...” Sam’s drowsy voice drifted from out of the hush. 

He shifted again, sliding a leg over Sam's. “Hmmmm?” 

“...is there something you want to tell me about Angela?” 

_Shit._

“…or Irene or Marci or Winona…” 

*** 

Sam blinked sleepily and lifted his head to stare at the clock. Five a.m. Way too early to even think about getting up. He turned onto his side, reaching out to snuggle up next to Al. 

And found the other side of the bed empty. 

Sam sat up slowly, running one hand through his hair as he looked around the room. Al was seated quietly in the corner, his eyes fixed on the blank white wall, the smoke from his cigar curling around his head. Pushing aside the blanket, Sam climbed out of bed and padded softly over to Al's chair. 

Al looked up as he drew close, the beautiful eyes dark and fathomless. “I'm sorry, kid. Did I wake you up?” 

Sam shook his head and placed a gentle hand on Al's shoulder. “No, I woke up on my own. You okay?” he asked with concern. 

“Sure, Sam.” Al reached up and took his hand, pulling him down. “Just thinking. Lots to think about.” His smile was a little somber. 

Sam relaxed into Al's arms, resting his face in the hollow of Al’s throat. “Yeah. Sure is. Second thoughts?” he ventured. 

“Yeah, second thoughts.” Al gave him a wry grin. “And third and fourth and fifth thoughts.” 

“Regrets?” 

“Nah. No regrets.” Al's voice was strong and sure as he turned his head to plant a tender kiss on Sam's forehead, and Sam relaxed into that sureness. “You?” 

“No. None. Al?” 

“Hmmm?” The strong fingers began their familiar tender dance up and down his arm. 

“What’s going to happen? Do you think they’ll try to court martial you?” 

Al snorted. “Let ‘em try. I think they oughta give me a friggin’ medal. You tell me – you think anyone gives a damn anymore about how far over budget we were? I say, the Navy wanted a diversion – they got a goddamn diversion. Way I look it, I was just following orders. They oughta thank me.” 

Sam laughed, as he knew Al intended. “Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” He sobered again. “What are we gonna say at the press conference tomorrow? Today,” he amended. 

Al’s gentle caresses continued. “I don't know, kid. I don't know. You can bet your ass the Navy will have someone here first thing in the morning with another brilliant idea. I guess we'll have to at least listen to what the nozzles have to say. And Weitzman. Christ, I’m not looking forward to him. But we'll figure something out, Sam. Something we're okay with, not just something that makes the rest of the world happy. Of course,” Al brightened suddenly and Sam heard the thread of amusement in his voice, “there's always that oldie but goodie from the eighties.” 

Sam shifted to look up into the weary, puckish face. “Oldie but goodie? What are you talking about, Al?” 

“You know.” Al poked him gently in the ribs, laughter filling his voice. 

Sam shook his head slowly, trying but failing to make the connection. 

The face above his settled into mild exasperation before Al shook his head and grinned. “C’mon, Sammy. You remember. We’re here, we're queer...” 

Sam felt the click in his head. 

In his heart. 

_“...get used to it.”_

They both smiled.  
   
 

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMERS: Sam Beckett and Al Calavicci are the property of Belisarius Productions. They did a lovely job with both of them. I know I don't own them, and now TPTB know that I know I don't own them. Hopefully this is enough to keep us all happy.
> 
> NOTES: This is the final of many versions of this story. Thank you to Mysti, for not printing it in its earlier, much less coherent stages. Thanks also to my betas, Lori and CJ and Leaper 182, who weren’t afraid to say, "what the fuck is that?" Special thanks to CJ for making the ending even better. Lingering mistakes are due to my incompetence, not theirs.


End file.
